Ice Cold Killer
by DetectiveSilence
Summary: After Reichenbach. John has a surprise visitor, but will he be able to help solve a case that leaves the best minds scratching their heads? Can the Doctor help 221B before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1 - Alone

**Authors Note:7 months after Reichenbach, and Sherlock is still 'dead'. Will be continued, so please review so that I can make it better. This is my first piece, so it's bound to be a bit messy and non-good. And also, I don't own the Characters, they belong to some awesome people like Moffatt, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

Doctor John Watson sat on his favourite chair with his laptop. It had been 7 months, 4 days and 2 hours since Sherlock had… done what he did. He still couldn't bear to think about that word, couldn't bear to think about what had happened. Why had he done it? Why on earth would someone as annoying, as arrogant, as _brilliant_ as Sherlock do what he did? It just didn't make sense.

He stared at his blog, his _empty_ blog, willing himself to write something. But he didn't. He hadn't typed anything on his blog for months. He used to, though. At the start. A few weeks after the… incident, his psychiatrist had convinced him to write something. He had written about how the papers were wrong, how the police were wrong, how everyone was wrong about Sherlock. He had written thanks to people who believed him, and people who had helped him through the emptiness that was now his life. But then it had just become so… meaningless. The letters of apology, the invitations to remembrances, the house calls to check he was okay. It was just all so pointless. The apologies were lame, the house calls were a waste of effort, and the remembrances were just painful. It wasn't going to bring him back, and it did nothing to lift his boredom, and it certainly didn't weaken the ice-cold grip that Sherlock still held on his heart.

Maybe Moriarty was on to something. Life was just so _dull_ without Sherlock. A continuous line. He needed a distraction. But what could distract him from Sherlock? He wasn't going to sink as low as Moriarty had, no, because Sherlock would have been ashamed of him. And he didn't want that.

He heard someone ring the doorbell. Urgent, but not a client. It was probably Lestrade or Molly. He sighed. He didn't have any visitors scheduled today, and he didn't want any. He ignored it. The doorbell rang again. He left it. The doorbell rang for the third time. He really didn't need this.

"Go away!" he shouted. He didn't want anyone here. He didn't want to have to play charades with anyone, pretend he was getting better when the reality was the opposite. In public, he was a private but relatively happy man, all things considered. But at home he was miserable. He just wanted to be left alone, was that too much to ask? He heard the doorbell again.

"GO AWAY!" he shouted again. He waited. He waited a bit more. He waited just a little bit more. Silence. He smiled, glad to have avoided social contact. He wondered how he managed to do it before. He had always been the social one, going out on dates, helping Mrs Hudson, answering the door, while Sherlock had always been the antisocial one. He had always been so alien, so knowing and unknowing and silent and loud, and he missed him. He honestly missed him. He missed his low, mocking voice, his violin at 3am, his uncontained experiments, his destructive boredom. All that was left now was his stuff, and an empty shell of a man sitting in his favourite chair.

There was a metallic jangle downstairs. It was probably Mrs Hudson, come back from the shops. It was a bit early, but maybe one of her friends had given her a lift. It didn't matter. Mrs Hudson let John be John, she could see past his pantomime of smiles and jokes, but she didn't pester him about getting help. She understood that John would be John, and pushing him would only make him worse. Good old Mrs Hudson.

He heard someone coming up the stairs. It wasn't Mrs Hudson, she avoided the steps when she could, she would have called him if she wanted him. The only other people who had a key were Lestrade, who was away in Scotland, and Mycroft, who had avoided John since the incident. So who was it? He listened to the footsteps, using the skills of deduction that Sherlock had been teaching him before the incident. The steps were slow, but not in a way that suggested casually. No, these were steps of burden, suggesting difficulty due to bad knees or weary feet. They were almost… forced, like the person needed to get up the stairs but found it incredibly painful, which suggested importance. But he didn't care about that anymore, nothing could be more important than his Sherlock. But nevertheless, he was curious. Who was walking up the stairs?

He listened patiently as the intruder reached the top of the stairs, and stopped. Why had they stopped? He heard deep breaths and noises, like the person was not used to physical exertion. He heard the person reach the door, pausing, possibly mustering up the courage and strength to enter. There was nothing. Why were they taking so long? Finally, he heard the person pull the door handle.


	2. Chapter 2 - Not so alone

**Don't fret! The Doctor will be introduced fairly soon *snicker* .Also, please review, because they only make things better, and I would hate for you (humble reader) to be disappointed.**

He person rattled the door handle. It was locked. John had locked it earlier that day to make sure no one walked in to see him wearing Sherlock's dressing gown and scarf and pretending to play Sherlock's violin. It was one of the few nice things that reminded him of Sherlock. He had always worn that blue scarf, even in the summer, but John had never bothered to ask how he got it. He was starting to wish he had. It was one of the few things that Sherlock liked, without exception, and he thought he would understand his friend more if he knew how he had got it.

He heard the door rattle again. He smiled. No one was coming in to disturb his troubled thoughts with endless chitchat about all things not Sherlock. He waited for the person to give up and go away, but they didn't. He heard the door handle rattle a few more times, before someone called his name.

The voice was muffled by the door, and a bit out of shape, like the owner of the voice had a cold, but it was distinct and familiar. He knew this voice, but he hadn't heard it in a long time. And he didn't have a clue who it was.

He heard the man call his name again. It was defiantly a man, the voice was low and strong, but also strained. The voice sounded in pain almost, it was like a loud man had been strangled and was trying to talk. He remembered when that had happened to Sherlock, but he had acted like there was nothing wrong. Of course, John figured it out, and had a great deal of fun teasing Sherlock about it. He heard the voice again, the voice outside his door.

"John, let me in."

"No. Go away and leave me alone."

"John, you have to let me in."

"NO I DON'T!"

John was annoyed now, how dare someone tell him what to do! He wasn't some sort of servant, getting paid to fetch and carry and take messages. He only took orders from Sherlock, and Sherlock had been away for a very long time. He looked back at his laptop and decided he would ignore the person outside until they left him alone. He decided to check Sherlock's website, _The Science of Deduction, _while he was waiting, in case someone had sent him a case or given some speech about how wonderful Sherlock was. He was just typing it into the search bar, when he heard something. The person outside was trying to unlock the door!


	3. Chapter 3 - look what the cat dragged in

He person rattled the door handle. It was locked. John had locked it earlier that day to make sure no one walked in to see him wearing Sherlock's dressing gown and scarf and pretending to play Sherlock's violin. It was one of the few nice things that reminded him of Sherlock. He had always worn that blue scarf, even in the summer, but John had never bothered to ask how he got it. He was starting to wish he had. It was one of the few things that Sherlock liked, without exception, and he thought he would understand his friend more if he knew how he had got it.

He heard the door rattle again. He smiled. No one was coming in to disturb his troubled thoughts with endless chitchat about all things not Sherlock. He waited for the person to give up and go away, but they didn't. He heard the door handle rattle a few more times, before someone called his name.

The voice was muffled by the door, and a bit out of shape, like the owner of the voice had a cold, but it was distinct and familiar. He knew this voice, but he hadn't heard it in a long time. And he didn't have a clue who it was.

He heard the man call his name again. It was defiantly a man, the voice was low and strong, but also strained. The voice sounded in pain almost, it was like a loud man had been strangled and was trying to talk. He remembered when that had happened to Sherlock, but he had acted like there was nothing wrong. Of course, John figured it out, and had a great deal of fun teasing Sherlock about it. He heard the voice again, the voice outside his door.

"John, let me in."

"No. Go away and leave me alone."

"John, you have to let me in."

"NO I DON'T!"

John was annoyed now, how dare someone tell him what to do! He wasn't some sort of servant, getting paid to fetch and carry and take messages. He only took orders from Sherlock, and Sherlock had been away for a very long time. He looked back at his laptop and decided he would ignore the person outside until they left him alone. He decided to check Sherlock's website, _The Science of Deduction, _while he was waiting, in case someone had sent him a case or given some speech about how wonderful Sherlock was. He was just typing it into the search bar, when he heard something. The person outside was trying to unlock the door!

He stared at the door, and saw the lock moving about. The person on the other side was using some sort of device to try and cheat the lock. He heard grunts and the sound of metal on metal, and he looked with horror as the lock turned, and the person pulled the door handle and opened the door, just a fraction. He could only see a crack of darkness beyond the door, so he was utterly blind, unable to deduce the person or appear in control. They could be pointing a gun at him, for all he knew! He decided to just stand next to his chair, being out of all other options. And then he heard that gloriously familiar voice.

"John, I'm sorry for what I did. You have to understand that I did this in your best interest, and you have to understand that you had to be kept in the dark. I didn't want to do this to you, but I had no other choice. I know you…"

The words caught in his throat, the emotion too unbearable.

"…probably don't want to see me again, but…"

John did a double take. That ...sounded an awful lot like Sherlock. But it couldn't be. Sherlock wasn't here anymore, he… he was….

"Sherlock?"

The man's last words came out in a whisper,

"John, I need you."

"What?"

That was defiantly Sherlock, there was no doubt about it. But how? He had seen everything with his own eyes, had seen the jump, the fall, and had heard the bone-crunching _thwack_ as Sherlock hit the pavement. But that impossible man was here, and there was no way that…

John was so confused, he was filled with questions, with curiosity, with joy, relief, and seething anger. But he forgot all about these when the door opened and Sherlock collapsed on the carped. He was thin and angular, his eyes glazed over and unfocused, his skin a deathly pale hue, and his lips blue.


	4. Chapter 4 - Pick up the phone!

**The bit you have all been waiting for. Can I call The Doctor to the stage. And please, please review, because it really is the icing on top of Mycroft's cake.**

Sherlock lay in the recovery position on the sofa. John had checked for any bruising, bleeding, or injection sites, but there were none. Sherlock's pulse was dangerously low, and he was so cold that his body was restricting blood from the arms, legs, and lips, to try to keep his brain alive. _'Everything else is just transport'_. Those words from Sherlock echoed back at him , that rude, insulting, dismissive voice that he loved so much, that he would never hear again. He could feel the panic rising in his throat, but his soldier instincts pushed it back down again. He had no idea how to help Sherlock, all he knew was there had been a string of murders,_ The Ice Cold Killer_, they had called it, and the victims all looked like Sherlock did now. He didn't know what had caused it, or how he could reverse it, all he knew was if he didn't act soon, his newly alive friend would revert to being dead, again.

What could he do? _What would Sherlock do? _Sherlock would try to find out as much about the victim as possible. But he already knew everything about Sherlock. Or, he _had_. What had Sherlock been doing while he was _dead_? He reached into Sherlock's tattered coat, and fished out Sherlock's phone, thankfully still intact after everything that had happened. He unlocked the phone, and searched Sherlock's history. He had been tracking John's laptop and phone, watching in on his conversations, even tracking him, but he had been doing other stuff as well. He had been contacting some _Doctor_ bloke a lot, and in a moment of panic, decided to call this _Doctor_. It was worth a try.

"Okay. I don't know who you are, but Sherlock seems to trust you. Please, I need your help."

"What? What happened? Who are you?"

"It's the Ice Cold Killer, and I'm John. John Watson."

"Watson?! I'll be there now."

As soon as the_ Doctor _guy had hung up, a young man burst through the door, holding a perfectly overall pebble, but as big as John's outstretched hand. The strange man rolled Sherlock on his back and laid the overlarge pebble on his chest. The large pebble started humming, and started glowing a hot-iron red. The strange _Doctor_ man relaxed, and for the first time John got a good look at him. He was wearing a bow tie, a tweed jacket complete with elbow patched, and his floppy hair fell over his right eye slightly. He was the most _odd-lookin_g Doctor John Watson had ever seen.


	5. Chapter 5 - How dare he

John stared. The man standing in front of him was just so… _strange_. He had no idea how Sherlock had met him, or what he had done, but he could tell that he had just saved Sherlock's life. He didn't know why, but he _trusted _this man. He had just left Sherlock's life in his hands, and he had done something and now Sherlock seemed to be recovering. He had no idea who this man was, but he just seemed so _trustworthy_.

John sighed, realising that work here was far from over. He needed answers, and this man was going to give him them, and soon. The man seemed pleased with the strange pebble-thing, and he turned to face John, his face plastered with joy and enthusiasm.

"Hello there!" he said, holding his hands wide and then deciding to shake John's hand vigorously, although he hadn't offered it.

"Sherlock has told me so much about you! I can't believe you actually write that blog, it's so cool!" And with that, the man reached out for John's cheeks and kissed him on the lips.

"Wha!?" John reeled, this sort of thing didn't tend to happen to him every day. He took a moment to get over the shock of getting kissed by a complete stranger.

"Who are you?"

"Who, me? I'm the Doctor."

"Sorry, who? Doctor of what, exactly?"

"Just the Doctor, Doctor will do." The Doctor said, already side-tracked by the tidiness of the room. Judging by the look on his face, he had been here before, but John had never met this man before, so when had he come round? He shook his head at the attention span of the Doctor, he was too much like Sherlock for his own good, although less insulting and arrogant.

"Oh, okay. But who are you?"

"I just told you, I'm the-" John cut across him, neither having the time nor the patience to let him finish.

"Yes, I know you're the Doctor, but who are you? How do you know Sherlock? What do you do? What is that stone-thing you put on his chest?" he asked, pointing at Sherlock.

"And how the hell did you get here so fast?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, obviously impressed by the directness of his questions.

"Whoa! Whoa, John! Slow down. One question at a time."

John sighed, already getting annoyed at the Doctor.

"How do you know Sherlock?"

"We're… old friends."

"No you're not. If you haven't noticed, Sherlock doesn't _have_ friends."

"That's a bit harsh, coming_ from_ one."

"Huh?"

"You. It's a bit mean you saying he has no friends seeing as _your_ his friend."

"His friend!?" John snorted, the Doctor obviously didn't know Sherlock.

"He's a _bloody psychopath_!"

The Doctor's friendly face dropped, replaced by a gaze of pure darkness. He narrowed his eyes menacingly. His voice was low.

"How _dare_ you speak of Sherlock like that. I thought better of you, John, I really did."

This just made John angrier, despite the fact that this man was could be insanely dangerous when he wanted to be.

"How dare I? How dare I!?" his voice rose into a shout.

"HE MADE ME THINK HE KILLED HIMSELF! HE MADE ME THINK HE WAS DEAD! FOR 7 BLOODY MONTHS! NOT ONE TEXT, NOT ONE NOTE, NOT ONE SIGN THAT HE SURVIVED! I HAD TO ARRANGE HIS BLOODY _FUNERAL_, FOR GOD'S SAKE! SO DON'T YOU 'HOW DARE ME', BECAUSE YOU HAVE _NO IDEA _WHAT IT'S LIKE TO SEE YOUR BEST FRIEND JUMP OFF A BUILDING!"

John collapsed into his armchair, so exhausted by everything to try and hide his emotions. The Doctor just stood there, utterly shocked by what John had said. But he didn't care. He just wanted to curl up and cry. Why would Sherlock do this to him? Didn't he mean anything to him? Of course he didn't, he was just an ordinary person, just someone to pay the rent and annoy when boredom struck. More than anything, John just wanted to sleep. He was so utterly tired of everything, and he just wanted to bury his head in a pillow and forget about it. But he couldn't. He saw the Doctor move towards him, and realised that he had started crying.

"I'm so sorry John. I had no idea. I'm sorry."

John looked up at the Doctor through his watery eyes, and saw that he really hadn't known. The Doctor truly meant it, and that was all that mattered right now. He put his head back in his hands, so alone after everything that had happened to him. The Doctor stayed where he was for a minute, upset at what Sherlock had done to poor, poor John.

"Aww, come here!" he said, wrapping John in a well-deserved hug.

"Shhh John, don't cry. I'll make it better."

John looked up at the Doctor, his eyes red and sore from crying. He was so alone, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes.

"You promise?"

"I promise."


	6. Chapter 6 - Three things

Sherlock could feel his consciousness pulling at him, dragging him away from the murky depths of his dream-mind. He didn't resist it, but he didn't rush towards it either. He approached it more like a wounded animal, cautiously. He couldn't remember much about before, but he had a vague idea of what had happened. Something about needing John, something about a secret, and being very, very cold. He wasn't sure if he wanted to wake up; he could feel the memories returning to him slowly, like a trickle of sand through a sand-timer. He had felt so… _guilty? _about something, but he didn't know why. He wasn't sure if he had ever felt this emotion before, he had never felt the need to be guilty about something before this. He did what needed to be done; anything else was just pay-back or for amusement. He had never truly felt guilty before, but he didn't like it now.

And then, all too suddenly, everything snapped back like an elastic band, and he was pulled away from the murky depth of his dream-mind, and flung at the present like a stone. He could feel something soft underneath him, but it gave way easily, like a… cushion. It must be the sofa, he decided. He was still wearing his clothes, thankfully, but his beloved Belstaff and scarf were gone. But that didn't matter, he was sure they were close by. It was warm, the heating must be on, but it was a lot warmer than normal. They normally kept it at a minimum, to keep the cost down, him and… someone. There was something he was _missing_, or more likely _three things_.

He realised what _one_ was- he was finding it very difficult to breath. There was some sort of weight pushing down on his chest, restricting him from taking more than shallow breaths. He wasn't sure what it was, so he gave his arms the task of finding out. Unfortunately, they were experiencing problems of their own. He tried to lift them, but they flopped around half-heartedly. He tried again, and managed to move them over his chest. The thing there was smooth and warm, but also hard, like stone. He tried to get his hands to hold on to it, but they found no purchase and slid down to his sides. He groaned, maybe _someone_ would assist him with removing the stone-like object. There was nothing. He sighed, he was sure he_ used_ to have someone by his side to help with thing like this, or even just laugh at him. And then thing _two_ struck him. What had happened to John?

He sat up with a burst of energy, and the stone-thing dropped on the ground with a _thud_. His eyes were wide open, and he scanned the living room he was in. There wasn't a John in sight. He called out, and despite his earlier flailing attempts to make his body work, his voice was crystal clear. He jumped up, something was wrong, why was John not here. He should be here, but he wasn't. He called out again, and rushed up to John's room. He shouted his name again, more desperately, but there was no reply.

He was really worried now, what if something had happened to John? Had someone taken him? Was he being held hostage, again? Had the ice-cold killer caught him too? The thoughts made him all the more worried, although he wasn't sure why, and gave him a renewed burst of energy as he burst into his own bedroom. He was desperate now, he had no clue what had happened to John, but he needed to know that he was safe. He shouted John's name out as loud as he could, and then he heard footsteps rushing up the stairs. He looked towards the door and watched with hope in his eyes as the door opened and a man stepped in. But it wasn't John.


	7. Chapter 7 - Uncharacteristic

**Aren't you all so lucky, getting 2 chapters in one day? Please tell me how I'm doing, reviews is what makes it worthwhile, so please be kind and press that review button down there. Yes, that one. Go on, press it, you know you want to!**

The Doctor stood in the doorway, his hair casting a shadow across his face. Sherlock's face had been filled with hope when he heard him run up the stairs, but now his face was as disappointed as ever. This struck the Doctor as odd, the great detective almost never let his face show emotion, but he decided not to mention it. There were more important things to discuss.

"Where's John?"

"He went out. For a walk."

"Why? Is he okay?"

The Doctor nodded silently. The man opposite him was _worryingly _worried (try saying that 5 times fast) about John. He was sure the detective had never been this concerned for anyone before, not even his brother. He decided to calm the detective's thoughts.

"He's fine. Just a bit… messed up. He needs to have some time to think. He'll come back when he's ready. He'll… probably punch you."

Sherlock looked at the ground, guilty. Now this _really_ worried the Doctor. Sherlock was _never _one to feel guilty, not even when he was caught trying to take apart the TARDIS. He knew that John and Sherlock were friends, and he knew that something bad had happened and Sherlock had jumped off a building, but this was just so… _uncharacteristic_.

"Are you… okay?" the Doctor asked, concern in his voice.

"It's… it's all my fault. He doesn't know what happened. He doesn't think I care. He probably doesn't want to ever see me again." The detective looked into the Doctor eyes, and they sparkled in despair. Sherlock was actually crying, by Zargon, the man was actually _crying_.

"Tell me. Tell me what happened." The Doctor needed to know, needed to know so that he could sort out this mess that he had managed to get tangled in. Sherlock's reply was quiet, his voice resigned.

"I can't. I just… can't. John, he'll never forgive me…"

The Doctor watched as big, heavy tears streamed across Sherlock's face. What could cause this? Who could cause this? What had Sherlock done that was so undeniably wrong, that he feared his flatmate would hate him for it?

"Of course he will. He's a soldier, Sherlock. He's tough."

Sherlock's voice came out as a mumble. "nononononono" Suddenly he was shouting, shouting at a man that only wanted to help him. "NO! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I MADE HIM THINK I WAS _DEAD_! HE TRUSTED ME AND I _LIED_ TO HIM! I GAVE HIM SO MUCH, AND THEN I TOOK IT AWAY AGAIN! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! You don't understand…" and then the great man was on the floor. He was covering his face with his hands and was shaking uncontrollably. The Doctor crouched down, and coaxed Sherlock's head up so that it looked at him. His eyes were red and he was so, so sad. The Doctor's voice was soft and comforting.

"Then help me understand. So that I can help."

"You-you'll help me?"

"Always."


	8. Chapter 8 - 'Panic' face

**Hello again, are you happy to have 3 chapters in one day? Are you? Good. Well then, read on, tell me if it makes sense, or if I'm just wasting my time. Either way, any sort of review of comment would be absolutely ****_Brilliant_****, so even if it's just a smiley, let me know. Imaginary pop tarts to anyone who reviews!**

The Doctor was sitting on the sofa, listening to Sherlock tell him what had happened. He was appalled that someone like Moriarty wielded so much power, he reminded him a bit too much of a certain Timelord…

He quickly banished that thought from his head. Moriarty and the Master were too similar to think about at the same time. Instead he focused on Sherlock's account of the incident. He was just describing the rooftop scene, the final encounter with the dreaded Moriarty. He told him how Moriarty had told him about the code, and how it was just a game, a game to get him here. There was no way, in _Moriarty's_ mind, to get out alive, but Sherlock had made a way out. He had an idea, that was so close to fool-proof, that Moriarty's sudden shooting was demoralizing at best. But now Sherlock had to do it, because there wasn't any other way. He had no other option. Sherlock had to make that jump, and had to be found dead.

The alien listened intently as Sherlock described those last precious moments before his own death. The heart-breaking call with John, that ended with Sherlock crying. The futile shouts that John made as Sherlock stepped towards the edge. Sherlock's fear and regret as he opened his arms and embraced the wind, taking that one final step into oblivion. The wind as it rushed through his hair and made his coat billow behind him; these things were all imprinted on his memory with the finest precision. He listened, enraptured in Sherlock's recollection of that fateful day. He didn't even realise Sherlock had finished until he jumped up and looked out of the window, hiding tear tracks that the Doctor had already noticed.

Sherlock didn't look at the Doctor when he spoke, but his voice was clear in the stillness that had descended on the flat like a smothering blanket.

"What do I tell him?"

The Doctor paused. He too had no idea how to tell John. He didn't want John to be angry with Sherlock, but he didn't want him to feel guilty or in debt to him either. John was Sherlock's friend, but he had also had to go through a lot without Sherlock. He was a soldier, but it didn't make it easier to cope with the pain.

"I don't know. You just have to tell him, and hope he understands."

"Do you think… he will still be my… friend?"

"Yes. He will always be your friend."

Sherlock paused before speaking again, but his words were uplifting, and it was worth the wait.

"How many times do you think he will punch me?"

The Doctor chuckled, and Sherlock turned back at him and smiled, no trace of the tears that the Doctor had seen earlier.

"Oh, I think at least twice."

"Hmm. I believe four, but it depends on what he had for breakfast."

"What? How?"

"Well, his breakfast will determine what sort of mood he was in before all this happened. If he ate nothing, then his hunger will make him especially violent, so I would say 7, at the least. If he had jam on toast, then he will be more satisfied, and will be happy with 3 punches to quell his anger. If he had honey on toast, the honey will increase his ability to sympathise, and he will only punch me once. But if he had leftovers, then he will punch me about 4 times, because the food would not have been fresh." The Doctor smiled at his rapid speech and deductions, and smiled because the detective seemed to be acting a bit more like himself.

Sherlock smiled too, because impressing the Doctor was always a pleasure. Someone as old and experienced as him would be hard to impress, you would think, but it was surprisingly easy. He glanced back at the window, and walked over to get a better look when he spotted a short blond man with a cane walking towards the door of 221B Baker Street. It was him.

"Doctor, it's John."

The Doctor glanced back at Sherlock, and heard the door downstairs being unlocked. His eyes widened, they hadn't planned a thing about how they were going to convince John. He gave Sherlock a 'what are we going to do' face, but Sherlock just shrugged, in a panic of his own. He heard John walking up the stairs slowly, and thanked his lucky stars that John's psychosomatic limp had come back. Wait a sec, he thought, he was supposed to be getting rid of things like that, not hoping for them. He gave himself a mental slap and rushed towards the door. Thankfully it was still unlocked. He heard John grunt as he made his way up the last of the steps, and quickly looked around to see where Sherlock was. He was hiding under a blanket behind the armchair. Great. He gave Sherlock his best 'what the hell so you think you're doing' face, but he seemed annoyingly immune to it. He sighed to himself, and opened the door just as John was approaching it

But he did not expect what had happened, to, well… _happen_.

**_Just so_****. Anyway, do you have anything that you would like to be included in this story? Any ideas where it's going, because I have some but yours might be better. Any characters you would like so see? If I don't use your ideas, it's only because I'll mess it up bad, so please don't be offended. Now... REVIEW!**


	9. Chapter 9 - String by string

John opened the door and walked into the room.

"Hi Doctor."

The Doctor nodded at him, having no idea what was going to happen, or what to do. He just stood in the middle of the room, looking like an awkwardly placed potted plant.

John sat down in his favourite chair, gesturing for the Doctor to sit as well.

"Sit down. We have things to sort out."

The Doctor sat down awkwardly on the sofa, puzzled by the relatively calm John in front of him.

"Yes… we do."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"He's still asleep. I put him upstairs, is that alright?"

"Yes." John said with a sigh. The Doctor wasn't sure if it was because he knew he was lying, or if it was because he believed him, or just because the room upstairs was John's room. He decided to remain quiet, and wait for John to start talking. After a moment of silence, he decided to start the conversation himself.

"So… are you alright, John?"

"Well yes. And no, I suppose. I need to talk to Sherlock."

"You can talk to me. I'm here to help."

"Yes, thank you for helping. But I think I need to talk to Sherlock."

"What do you need to talk about?"

"Everything. Reichenbach. Secrecy. Rent. Friends."

"Can I help?"

John mulled over what the Doctor said.

"Mm. I suppose so. Did he tell you about the fall?"

"Yes. He told me about the fall."

"Why did he fake his suicide?"

Suddenly, Sherlock appeared from behind his chair, blanket still around his shoulders like a kid playing dress-up. He got up and sat on his chair in one swift movement.

"I did it to save you."

The Doctor face palmed. "I had this sorted!"

Sherlock shot him a glare, telling him to shut up without opening his mouth. The Doctor huffed and folded his arms in a very childish way, and sulked. John, however, was unfazed.

"Explain."

"Three gunmen. Three victims. Unless I jumped."

John frowned, obviously not understanding what Sherlock meant.

"I don't understand. Was this Moriarty?"

"Yes, it was Moriarty. He had hired three assassins to shoot Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you, unless he saw me jump. I couldn't have let that happen."

"So… you did that to save me- I mean us? You jumped so that we could live?"

"Yes."

"Why so long. Why wait 7 months?"

"I had to take down Moriarty's web. String by string. Until you were safe."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you would not be standing here today if I did. It wasn't worth the risk."

"I thought you were dead."

"And I'm sorry."

"Is that it?"

"No. There's more, but not right now. I need you to know, I didn't intend for this to happen. I didn't want to do this to you, but it couldn't have been any other way. I didn't think it would affect you so much. And I'm sorry. For everything."

John just stared at Sherlock. Sherlock was looking at the ground in shame, waiting for John to punch him, or hurl abuse at him, or just anything. The Doctor was watching John, trying to work out if he was going to hit Sherlock, and if he would need the first aid kit, or even an ambulance. He was prepared to carry John away if he needed to, but at the moment he had no idea what was going to happen.

But before anything could happen, before anyone could punch anyone else, before anyone could hurl insults or break down, Mrs Hudson burst through the door.

"Boys, it's snowing!"

She looked at the flat, and then at Sherlock.

"_Sherlock_? I thought you were dead!"


	10. Chapter 10 - Corners

Sherlock reacted immediately, grabbing John's gun off him and shooting the creature square in the chest. The creature looked down at the hole in its chest, and suddenly ice was crawling its way across. The bullet hole was now completely gone, and it looked up at Sherlock and roared. But instead of a roar, there was a blizzard in Sherlock's face, and the Doctor pulled him back. He couldn't feel his face, but he could tell that it wasn't too bad. A second longer, and it would of reached his brain, but he was fine. The creature was still there, figuring out which would be the easiest victim.

"What the hell is that _thing_!?" John shouted at them, over the sound of billowing wind. Wait a second, billowing wind? They were inside, and the windows were intact, so why was there wind?

"It's part of the Great Intelligence. They've taken over the body and infused it with ice. It's the ice cold killer." The Doctor said, as way of explaining things. Unfortunately, it didn't really explain much to John, so Sherlock tried to explain.

"The Great Intelligence is an organization that is trying to take over London. But the Doctor is wrong." He said, backing away from the woman who was slowly advancing on them. "The woman was a victim of the GI. But then they used her body and turned it into a killing machine. It's both the Ice Cold Killer and a victim of the Ice Cold Killer. There's more than just one of them." He clarified, walking back a bit more. Only then, he realised that they had been backed into a corner. {_StupidSherlock_}

{Probability of escape: 24%}

{Probability of group escape: 3%}

{Cataloguing escape routes…}

{…}

{…}

{Found: 2}

{1: Slip past Woman on right hand side}

{Probability of Success: 47%}

{Probability of group Success: 0.7%}

{Not acceptable risk}

{?47%?}

{Must not put John in danger}

{Error}

{No Error detected}

{2: Push woman back}

{No contact- Contact is fatal}

{How to push back enemy…}

{…}

{…}

{No solution}

{_DamnIt_}


	11. Chapter 11 - Corners by John

**Same thing as last chapter, but Johns point of view. Just seemed a good idea at the time...**

**Please review, reviews are like mini-Christmases, except you don't have to spend lots of money.**

John was frozen on the spot. There was a perfectly dead woman standing in their doorway, preparing to strike them down. What? Everything made no sense, everything was _wrong_. It was impossible. He was suddenly freed from his spot when he felt his gun being tugged out of his hand. His hand? How was it there? Sherlock shot the woman square in the chest, and he expected her to topple over on to the carpet. But she- no_ it_- didn't. It looked down at the hole in its chest, and ice crawled over until it was frozen solid. How? He didn't even know what to make of this. Suddenly, the thing opened its mouth and a blizzard came out and hit Sherlock in the face. The Doctor darted forward and pulled Sherlock back, before the ice could do any lasting damage. He looked back at the monstrosity in front of them, that was just observing them with a cool glare.

"What the hell is that thing!?" He shouted at the other two, over the sound of billowing wind. He needed answers now, he could tell that they knew a lot more than him, and he was damned if he was going to be some sort of third wheel, again, not now, when their lives were at stake. And why was could he feel icy wind on his face? The windows were closed, and there was no apparent source.

"It's part of the Great Intelligence. They've taken over the body and infused it with ice. It's the ice cold killer." The Doctor said, as way of explaining things. But it just made John's head spin, what the Doctor said was nonsensical. But then, this frozen woman was also an impossibility, so he guessed he should just take the Doctor's words as truth. But he still didn't understand them. As if he had read his mind, Sherlock turned to him and explained in a way he could understand better.

"The Great Intelligence is an organization that is trying to take over London. But the Doctor is wrong." He said. He moved toward Sherlock so that he could hear him better, because the wind was still whooshing around the flat.

"The woman was a victim of the GI. But then they used her body and turned it into a killing machine. It's both the Ice Cold Killer and a victim of the Ice Cold Killer. There's more than just one of them." He clarified. John nodded his head slowly, it was a lot to take in, but it made more sense than when the Doctor had said it. This case was nothing like he had heard of before, and his suspicions about aliens had been confirmed. He knew there was something_ spacey_ about the whole thing.

John only then realised they had been backed into a corner.

-Damn it man, what happened to your soldier senses?-

-Ask Sherlock-

-Later. Right now, we need a plan-

-Sherlock will make one-

-Don't depend on Sherlock, he just lied to you for three years-

-He's still your best friend-

-You would still die for him-

-Focus. Plan-

-Can't go around it, not enough room or time for all of us.-

-Can't kill it, it's an ice thing-

-Fire?-

-Not in the flat. I happen to live here-

-There's no way out for all of us-

-There's only one option-

-No-

-Yes, I have to do this-

-For Sherlock-


	12. Chapter 12 - Corners by the Doctor

**Sorry, I thought this chapter was already up. Obviously not.  
Also sorry that I didn't update it, but seeing as nobody reads this story I'm not entirely sure who I'm apologizing to. Possibly myself. Goodness knows why.  
I'm so so sorry for the sadness that is to come.**

Doctor POV

The Doctor reacted immediately, and so did Sherlock. The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver, and watched Sherlock pull out a gun and shoot the Ice Killer/Woman Creature in the chest. He watched inevitably as it froze over and healed up, so that there was no sign that it had ever been shot in the first place. He pressed some buttons on the Sonic Screwdriver, and it emitted a buzz so high-pitched that Sherlock and John didn't hear it. He couldn't really hear it either, but it gave a faint impression. He was about to look at the readings, but then he saw the Ice Killer emit a blizzard from its mouth, directed straight at Sherlock, and he pulled the lanky detective back quickly, before the ice cold temperature killer him.

He quickly inspected Sherlock, but he seemed fine, so he let him be and focused instead on the creature in front of him. It was assessing them, seeing which one was the weakest, and planning from there.

"What the hell is that _thing_?" John shouted at them, over the sound of raging wind. He had no idea how there was raging wind in a small enclosed room like this, but he was preoccupied. The wind was probably coming from the Ice Killer.

The Doctor decided to answer John's question, it wasn't fair that he was left out of the loop, it was terrifying facing a creature you knew nothing about, and anyway, he could be useful. When the Doctor first met John, he didn't strike him as extremely clever or brave, but he had proven his worth. He was sharp, insistent, determined, good in morals, and very, very, brave and loyal. Just what Sherlock needed.

"It's part of the Great Intelligence. They've taken over the body and infused it with ice. It's the ice cold killer" He said, as way of explaining things. Unfortunately, he had forgot that John knew nothing of time and space, and had yet to see the TARDIS, and was not surprised when he looked at him in confusion. He backed away slowly from the Ice Killer, that was slowly making its way towards them.

Sherlock started to explain the Doctor's explanation in a way he thought was less clear, but one that John obviously understood better.

"The Great Intelligence is an organization that is trying to take over London. But the Doctor is wrong." Sherlock said. The Doctor gave him a quick glare, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. John moved toward Sherlock so that he could hear him better, because that insistent wind was still roaring across the flat, despite the obvious contradiction that it couldn't exist. Sherlock ploughed on.

"The woman was a victim of the GI. But then they used her body and turned it into a killing machine. It's both the Ice Cold Killer and a victim of the Ice Cold Killer. There's more than just one of them."

John was nodding his head slowly at Sherlock's words, but there were bigger (proverbial) fish to fry. The Ice Killer was slowly backing them into a corner. The Doctor mentally slapped himself, he had been so caught up looking after Sherlock and John that he hadn't been paying enough attention to the creature in front of him that was going to kill them. How had he forgotten it?

~I didn't forget, I just prioritized it differently~

~How is making sure John understands what we're dealing with more important than dealing with what we're dealing with~

~Too much dealing~

~Shut up, I'm concentrating~

~John needed to know what was happening~

~John!~

~He's fine~

~ .Now~

~Can't go around Ice Killer, not all of us~

~Must protect the others~

The Doctor remembered his Sonic Screwdriver and looked at the readings. It told him that the molecular structure of the woman had changed so much; it was more snow than woman. He needed heat, but he didn't have any.

~Use the Sonic Screwdriver~

~Not enough power~

~Sonic it~

~can't sonic a Sonic~

The Ice Killer was now a meter away, and there was no apparent way out.

~Push past her~

~I won't survive, but they will~

~No! Only you can stop the Great Intelligence~

~They need to live, otherwise what is the point of me?~

~I need to live, otherwise what is the point of me?~

~They live~

~The world lives~

~SJ*£IF&**SF%&DH "HS"gs^ass*F(S)~

The Doctor glanced one last time at his companions.

~No John~

~Don't you dare!~

The Doctor opened his mouth in protest, but he was too late. Sherlock could see it too, but he was too late. It was all too late.


	13. Chapter 13 - To see you again

**I'm so so sorry. But I had to get my revenge by (possibly) breaking your feels and grounding them into the ground. I'm both a Sherlockian and a Whovian, and it's very stressful.  
I'm so so sorry for the (rubbish attempt at) sadness that is to come.**

John collected his strength, prepared his army skills, and hit the Ice Killer with all the force he could muster. The Ice Killer, unprepared for this, toppled to the ground. It hit the edge of the coffee table with such force that it cracked and shattered. The chunks of now-dead ice crumbled to the ground.

John stared at his fist in disbelief. It was covered with a layer of that strange ice, and he could feel it penetrating below his skin. He watched the ice thicken, and he felt the ice reach his bloodstream.

The Doctor and Sherlock gaped at him, too shocked to move. John started swaying and suddenly he was on the floor. His hand was heavy, and it hurt, it hurt like it was frozen solid but he could still feel it. It burned with coldness.

"John! John! Can you hear me!?"

Sherlock was shaking his shoulders violently, his eyes wide and fearful, and the strangest look on his face. It was almost panic.

"Yes Sherlock, I can hear you, but can you just stop…"

Sherlock realised he was shaking John, like he didn't know he was doing it, and he stopped immediately. John could see the Doctor behind him, checking the Ice Killer to make sure it wasn't going to come back to life or anything sinister like that. When he was satisfied, he got up and walked towards them.

"Doctor, is he going to be alright." Sherlock asked, which shocked John. Sherlock was never one to feel sentiment; in fact he tended to scoff at the idea and then proceed to insult someone.

The Doctor looked at Sherlock with hollow eyes. His eyes were so empty, like they had seen the end. Those eyes had once been full of wonder and enthusiasm, but it was like someone had sucked the life out of them. There was only pity there now.

"I'm sorry Sherlock-" the Doctor started, a look of defeat in his eyes.

"No Doctor, there had to be a way." Sherlock said, almost desperately.

"No Sherlock. There's no way-"

"NO! Don't say that! There's got to be a way!" Sherlock was frantic now, waving his hands about and looking at the Doctor with a face of desperate denial.

"Sherly-"

"_NO_! DON'T YOU SHERLY ME, DOCTOR! YOU HAVE TO HELP HIM!" Sherlock exploded.

"_Oh, Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_. I'm sorry, but there is nothing we can do." The Doctor said, his voice quiet and wistful. He gave Sherlock a lugubrious look.

"But you have to save him. You save everyone." Sherlock said in a small, small voice.

"Not all the time."

"Well then what is the point of you, _Doctor_?"

The Doctor just looked at the ground in shame.

Sherlock finally looked down at John. He had been avoiding him, but now he looked him straight in the eyes.

"You shouldn't have done that."

For a moment, John was confused. He could feel the ice trailing up his arm, his icy blood spreading through his body. It hurt so much. But he didn't want to live his last minutes in pain. He had almost done that once, and it had nearly killed him, inside. Knowing you were dying and only thinking about the pain you were in killed your soul. He didn't want to die like that.

"Done what?" John asked.

"Punched the Ice Killer. It was risky and foolish." Sherlock said calculatingly, like he had miss-counted his scrabble score of something.

"Maybe, but I got rid of the ice-thing."

"John. You just got yourself killer. I'd hardly call that a result."

"I got you back. I'd call that a result." John said, the ice reaching the tips of his toes and spreading like food colouring in water.

"John, I got you _killed_!" Sherlock said, frustrated.

"It was worth it."

"What!? How was getting killed to see me worth it?" Sherlock said, fury in his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry Sherlock. It's called sentiment. I wouldn't expect you to understand." John said. He could feel his heart, icy and cold. His legs were burning with ice and his arm had stopped feeling completely. His mind was becoming sluggish, and he knew he only had a little time left.

"I think I understand." Sherlock said softly.

The Doctor tapped Sherlock lightly on the shoulder, and he stood up to face him. The Doctor whispered in his ear.

"We need to make sure John doesn't become an Ice Cold Killer."

"That could happen?"

"Oh yes. I think it might already have started."

Sherlock and the Doctor looked back at John, who was still lying on the ground. He could barely lift his head, but his arm was waving about, like a half-wired robot.

"Can we stop it?"

"Yes, but I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Why?"

The Doctor looked at Sherlock with regret.

"Doctor, tell me."

"We can stop him becoming a monster. But you have to kill him, and he has to watch."

**Stand and Deliver!**

**If you want to see John live, give me all your reviews. And ideas. Those too. I currently have non.  
*DON'T PANIC***


	14. Chapter 14 - An honour

**This is an extra-long chapter. Everything will be explained.  
Well, I say that, but truth is not much gets explained. In fact, there are just more questions.**

**And I am so, so sorry. My life ambition is to become Mofftiss single-handedly. You have been warned.**

"No."

"_What_?" the Doctor asked.

"Just No."

"Sherlock, you have to do this."

"No."

"Sherlock!"

"I refuse."

"Sherlock!" The Doctor said again.

"No Doctor. You got me into this mess. You got _John_ into this mess." Sherlock said, frustration burning in his eyes. He was sick and tired of the Doctor with his antics and brains and his nonsense and his fashion-sense and his lies and his words. He had only caused trouble for Sherlock.

"You brought John into this Sherlock." The Doctor said quietly.

"If it wasn't for you and your aliens John wouldn't be dying." Sherlock countered.

"If it wasn't for you John would be happy." The Doctor said, his voice barely audible.

"Don't say that." Sherlock told him, his voice a mere whisper.

"What?! Because it's true?" The Doctor asked, a cruel smirk on his face of thunder.

Sherlock glared at him, before turning away. But for a moment, the Doctor had seen hurt. True hurt at his words. Sherlock never let words hurt him. The Doctor just wanted to take them all back, but they were out now, and there was nothing he could do.

Sherlock stood at the window, his back to his companions.

"Doctor, I refuse to kill John."

"You have to."

"I have to do no such thing."

"It's either you or me mate, and believe me, I ain't gonna do it." The Doctor said, a slight western accent to his words.

"Well then, that settles it."

"Sherlock. You have to kill John. I know it's a lot to take in, I know it's a lot to ask, but you have to. Such a death on my conscious, well, it might just be the end of me."

"What?" Sherlock said, chuckling in his low voice. But it wasn't a nice chuckle. No, it was sad and twisted and cruel and the truth, all at once. He turned at the Doctor, a cruel twist on his lips and a cool, removed look in his eyes. "And you think it won't affect me."

"Not as much as myself, no."

Sherlock walked towards the Doctor until he was just centimetres away, staring down at the Doctor eyes. His cruelly turned up lips suddenly vanished, and a look of vengeance appeared on his face.

"You know nothing, Doctor. I am a highly functioning psychopath, and John is my best friend. In your book of mad men and villains, tell me how important John is to someone like me."

The Doctor looked down, and stared at his shoes.

"An awful lot, I guess."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you."

The Doctor looked back up at Sherlock.

"And therefore it would mean all the more to me if you did do it." The Doctor said. "John is becoming a monster Sherlock, and we can't let that happen. You can't."

Sherlock looked away, at the window again. His eyes seemed to unfocus, as though he was thinking. He turned back at the other two, and went over to John, who had been rather neglected in Sherlock and the Doctor's heated debate.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?" John asked, straining his eyes to focus the man who was leaning over him.

"I'm so, so sorry."

"It's alright."

"No it's not. I was supposed to protect you and I failed."

"You tried your best. That's all that matters." John said. Sherlock smiled at that, even if just a bit. Sherlock had never really been complimented before John came along, and no one had ever told him that trying his best was all that mattered.

"I'm sorry."

John smiled. It wasn't every day you heard the great detective apologize.

"And you don't know how hard I find it to say that." Sherlock finished off. This made John's smile widen, so that it almost reached his eyes. But not quiet. Sherlock's small smile dropped instantly.

"You're in pain."

John let loose a tiny grimace. Sherlock noticed.

"No shit Sherlock."

"John! You should have told me."

John smiled again, humour in his voice. "Didn't seem worth it. Your little stand-off with the Doctor was quite entertaining."

"John!"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"What does it feel like? The pain?"

"Bloody awful."

"John!" Sherlock warned, telling John that now was not the time to fool about.

"It's like burning. All across my body. I can feel it in my fingers and my toes and I can feel it pumping through my blood vessels. And it's cold. It's so, so cold. It's like a burning star inside of me, but with ice. It's like burning and freezing at the same time, and it's _wonderful_."

"What!?"

"Thank you Sherlock. For everything. I was so, so alone before I met you. I was so alone, and I was broken. There was no life in me, no life _for _me. And then I went into a lab and you were there and I just thought _wow_, that guy is clever. That guy is the cleverest man I've ever met. And then you took me under your arm and you showed me there was life after all that death that had surrounded me. You showed me I was worth something, and showed me that there was something worth me being alive for. You fixed me up, and I can't ever thank you enough. No matter what anyone says, you are a real human being, and no matter what you say I know you have feelings, underneath that cold exterior. And don't you let anyone tell you otherwise, because I believe in you. I believe."

"And now, I'd like to ask you a favour." John said. Sherlock only nodded, his eyes streaming with tears. John was so brave, and Sherlock knew what he was going to ask.

"Would you do something? Just for me? Could you just do this little thing for me?" Sherlock nodded again. The Doctor watched, his face wet with tears. It shouldn't end this way, the blogger asking one last favour of the detective.

"Could you, would you, end my life? Because I really can't take it anymore. And I'd really appreciate not turning into an Ice-Creature-Thing. Would you?"

Sherlock stood up slowly, and took John's gun off the table. He wasn't sure how it had gotten there, but that was not important. What was important was that it was there now. He turned the gun around in his hand, checking that there were bullets in there. One left. Sherlock walked across to the other side of the room, and pointed the gun at Sherlock.

"It would be an honour. Thank you, John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusserlear."

Sherlock looked John in the eyes, and pulled the safety catch. A man burst through the doorway, for there was no longer a door there. He was somewhat short, and his cream jumper was stained and ripped. He had neat, blond hair, and his name was John Watson.

"What? But!" The Doctor exploded, his face passing between the two different John's.

"But how the hell did _you_" The Doctor pointed at the dying John who was lying on the ground "get to _you_?" he finished, pointing at the living, walking John in the doorway.

**Yes, I know. I will explain next chapter. But only if you like the story. I only know that if you review. So do so.**


End file.
